I covered the demolition of Spain. I witnessed the humiliation of Brazil. I saw the Luiz Suarez bite, the Arjen Robben dive, The James Rodriguez "giant insect" incident, The Miguel Herrera celebration, the Tim Howard 16-save game and the moment Neymar had his back broken. During the 2014 World Cup, I only attended 12 games. But for some reason, every one of them went bonkers.

What's strange about being at a match in these kinds of moments is that the depth of the madness you've witnessed doesn't hit you right away. You remember the noise. You feel brief disorientation, followed by a short pause before your synapses begin to fire and connect.

You always remember the things people say around you. "Did he just bite him?" someone asked after Uruguay's Luis Suárez crashed into Italy defender Giorgio Chiellini.

During the Massacre of the Mineirao, Brazil's 7-1 dismantling by the Germans, one colleague couldn't believe that soccer could allow this to happen. With every goal, he asked, "Does that one count?"

My 12 matches account for only 18.75% of the contests at this World Cup. But I somehow saw 44 goals, which is 25.7% of the tournament's total. Part of the reason for this is the wide-open attacking style of play we've seen in Brazil. And part of it must be something they put in the water in the city of Salvador. In four games at the Arena Fonte Nova, I saw 20 goals.

I can't say I was disappointed by the offensive fireworks. Merci Les Bleus for demolishing Switzerland. Dank u Oranje for lighting up Spain. And Germany—for what I watched you do to Portugal and Brazil, I can only say I'm glad you were gentle with the U.S.

In addition to these scoring deluges, I was also treated to extraordinary shot-stopping performances by goalkeepers. I didn't think anyone could do a better impersonation of a ball-sucking magnet than Guillermo Ochoa during Mexico's 0-0 victory against Brazil—it was definitely a victory. Except then I saw Tim Howard against Belgium. With every surefire Belgian attack, he dug out another save, and followed it by howling at his defenders.

The U.S. lost that Howard game, of course. But the goalkeeper still emerged as a hero. If that's not a sign that Americans are finally getting this sport, then I don't know what is.

The strangest game of all is one that I nearly missed.

After scrambling to get on a flight from Recife to Natal, which turned out to be a rocky little turboprop plane, I hopped into a cab at the airport 90 minutes before kickoff. The driver, roughly 12 years old, knew I had to make it. He pulled on a couple of special driving sleeves (so he wouldn't get sunburn?) and floored it. He went close to 100 miles an hour for as long as he could without slipping into lanes of oncoming trucks. And once we hit traffic in Natal's steamy downtown, the cowboy at the wheel started running red lights. But he got me there, with 30 minutes to spare.

All I could think was, "Please let this game be a quiet one! Couple of early goals, no controversy…."

For 80 minutes, that's what I got. It stayed 0-0. Then Suarez bit someone.

Get me a rewrite!

From the media section of a soccer stadium, you miss the little details. So you have to discover them on a television screen like everybody else. I never saw the bite marks on Chiellini up close, even as the Italian tugged at his jersey to show them to the referee. I never saw Germany coach Jogi Löw pick his nose. And from way up in the press seats, I never saw the Japanese-horror-movie insect perched on the arm of Colombia's James Rodriguez after he scored a goal. I was far more worried about the egg-sized moth sitting quietly on the back of the guy sitting next to me. (He never noticed it and I wasn't about to anger that beast.)

Another thing you learn is to appreciate the difficulty of real-time refereeing in a World Cup game. The tackle on Neymar that turned Juan Camilo Zuniga into Brazil's Public Enemy No. 1 didn't look like a vertebra-crunching knee to the back. Even as Neymar went off on a stretcher, there was no sense around the stadium that his tournament was done. Everyone was far more preoccupied by Brazil hanging onto its slender lead.

If there's anything that all soccer writers hate, regardless of nationality, it's a late goal. I'm looking at you guys, Wesley Sneijder and Klaas Jan Huntelaar, or as I like to call you: the human "delete" keys. They both scored in the final six minutes to overcome a 1-0 deficit against Mexico in the round of 16. The Dutch were fun to watch at this tournament, but I'm not cool with those guys yet.

I suppose it goes without saying that I was also present for Croatia vs. Mexico. You know—the game in which Mexico's coach, Miguel Herrera, celebrated the win by maniacally tackling people.

The games aren't the only thing about this World Cup that was disorienting. Around two weeks ago in the airport in Recife, I actually lost track of where I was. Staring at an "arrivals" board full of Brazilian city names, I was sure I could have flown in from pretty much any of them just 15 minutes before. Salvador? Maybe. Belem? That was an airport I'd seen. Natal? Yeah, maybe Natal. It was only when I overheard someone say the word Fortaleza that it clicked. Fortaleza, that's where I was!

Because this tournament was spread out between 12 cities in this enormous nation, I had to make 19 flights (and one seven-hour bus ride). In retrospect, it was insanity. No one should fly that much without earning an airline salary.

ENLARGE

This tackle by Juan Camilo Zuniga of Colombia resulted in a World Cup-ending injury to Brazil's Neymar.
Getty Images

But all of this set me up to see nearly every lunatic moment of this tournament. For that I'm incredibly grateful.

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